The cell doors are unlocked so we can all go and have breakfast; one hour earlier than in Belmarsh. Chris and I walk down to the hotplate. At least the eggs have been boiled quite recently - like today. We’re also given a half carton of semi-skimmed milk, which means that I can drop the long-life version from my weekly shopping list and spend the extra 79p on some other luxury, like marmalade.
9.40 am
Mr Newport pops his head round the cell door to announce that Mr Tinkler, the principal officer, would like a word with me. Even the language at Wayland is more conciliatory. When I leave my cell, he adds, ‘It’s down the corridor, second door on the left’
When I enter Mr Tinkler’s room, he stands up and ushers me into a chair on the other side of his desk as if he were my bank manager. His name is printed in silver letters on a triangular piece of wood, in case anyone should forget. Mr Tinkler resembles an old sea captain rather than a prison officer. He has weathered, lined skin and a neatly cut white beard. He’s been in the service for over twenty years and I learn that he will be retiring next August. He asks me how I’m settling in - the most common question asked by an officer when meeting a prisoner for the first time. I tell him about the state of my room and the proclivities of my cell-mate. He listens attentively and, as there is little difference in our age, I detect some sympathy for my predicament. He tells me that as soon as my induction is over he plans to transfer me to a single cell on C block which houses mainly lifers. Mr Tinkler believes that I’ll find the atmosphere there more settled, as I will be among a group of prisoners closer to my own age. I leave his office feeling considerably better than when I entered it.
10.01 am
I’ve only been back in my cell for a few minutes when Mr Newport pops his head round the door again. ‘We’re moving you to a cell down the cor
ridor. Pack your belongings and follow me.’ I hadn’t really unpacked so this exercise doesn’t take too long. The other cell also turns out to be a double, but once I’m inside Mr Newport whispers, ‘We’re hoping to leave you on your own.’ Mr Tinkler’s sympathy is translated into something far more tangible than mere words.
I slowly unpack my possessions from the regulation prison plastic bag for the seventh time in three weeks.
As I now have two small cupboards, I put all the prison clothes like shirts, socks, pants, gym kit, etc. in one, while I place my personal belongings in the other. I almost enjoy how long it takes to put my new home in order.
11.36 am
Mr Newport is back again. He’s making his rounds, this time to deliver canteen lists to every cell. He has already warned me that if the computer hasn’t transferred my surplus cash from Belmarsh I will be allowed an advance of only PS5 this week. I quickly check the top of the list, to discover I’m in credit for PS20.46. This turns out to be my weekly allowance of PS12.50 plus two payments from the education department at Belmarsh for my lecture on creative writing and two sessions at the workshop. I spend the next thirty minutes planning how to spend this windfall. I allow myself such luxuries as Gillette shaving foam, Robertson’s marmalade and four bottles of Evian water.
12 noon
Lunch. On Fridays at Wayland lunch comes in a plastic bag: a packet of crisps, a bar of chocolate, a bread roll accompanied by a lettuce leaf and a sachet of salad cream. I can only wonder in which prison workshop and how long ago this meal was packed, because there are rarely sell-by dates on prison food. I return to my cell to find the canteen provisions have been deposited on the end of my bed in yet another plastic bag. I celebrate by thumbing my bread roll in half and spreading Robertson’s Golden Shred all over it with the aid of my toothbrush handle. I pour myself a mug of Evian. Already the world is a better place.
12.40 pm
Part of the induction process is a private session with the prison chaplain. Mr John Framlington looks to me as if it’s been some years since he’s administered his own parish. He explains that he’s a ‘fill-in’, as he shares the work with a younger man. I assure him that I will be attending the service on Sunday, but would like to know if it clashes with the RCs. He looks puzzled.
‘No, we both use the same chapel. Father Christopher has so many parishes outside the prison to cover each Sunday he holds his service on a Saturday morning at ten thirty.’ Mr Framlington is interested to discover why I wish to attend both services. I tell him about my daily diary, and my failure to hear Father Kevin’s sermon while at Belmarsh. He sighs.
‘You’ll quickly find out that Father Christopher preaches a far better sermon than I do.’
2.40 pm
The first setback of the day. Mr Newport returns, the bearer of bad news. Six new prisoners have arrived this afternoon, and once again I will have to share. I learn later that there are indeed six new inductees but as the prison still has several empty beds there is no real need for me to share. However, there are several reporters hanging around outside the prison gates, so the authorities don’t want to leave the press with the impression I might be receiving preferential treatment. Mr Newport claims he has selected a more suitable person to share with me. Perhaps this time it won’t be a Stanley-knife stabber, just a machete murderer.
I transfer all my personal possessions out of one of the cupboards and stuff them into the other, along with the prison kit.
3.18 pm
My new room-mate appears carrying his plastic bag. He introduces himself as Jules (see plate section). He’s thirty-five and has a five-year sentence for drug dealing. He’s already been told that I don’t smoke.
I watch him carefully as he starts to unpack, and I begin to relax. He has an unusual number of books, as well as an electric chessboard. I feel confident the evening viewing will not be a rerun of Top of the Pops and motorbike scrambling. At five to four I leave him to continue his unpacking while I make my way to the gym for another induction session.
3.55 pm
Twenty new inmates are escorted to the gym. There are no doors to be unlocked on our unimpeded journey to the other side of the building. I also notice that on the way we pass a library. I never even found the library at Belmarsh.
The gym is an even bigger shock. It’s quite magnificent. Wayland has a full-size basketball court, which is fully equipped for badminton and tennis. The gym instructor asks us to take a seat on a bench where we’re handed forms to fill in, giving such details as age, weight, height and sports we are interested in.
‘My name is John Maiden,’ he tells us, ‘and I’m happy to be called John.’ I never learnt the first name of any officer at Belmarsh. He tells us the different activities available: cricket, basketball, badminton, football, rugby and, inevitably, weight training. He then takes us into the next room, an area overcrowded with bars, dumb-bells and weights. Once again I’m disappointed to discover that there is only one treadmill, three rowing machines and no step machine. However, there are some very strange-looking bikes, the likes of which I’ve never seen before.
A gym orderly (a prisoner who has obviously been trained by Mr Maiden) takes us round the room and describes how to use each piece of equipment. He carries out the task most professionally, and should have no trouble finding a job once he leaves prison. I’m listening intently about bench pressing when I find Mr Maiden standing by my side.
‘Are you still refereeing rugby?’ he asks.
‘No. I gave up about ten years ago,’ I tell him. ‘Once the laws started to change every season I just couldn’t keep up. In any case I found that even if I only refereed veteran teams I couldn’t keep up, quite literally.’